


The Mysterious Murder of Mademoiselle Sancoeur

by MaybeMayura



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: AU, Adrinette, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Clues, Detective AU, I hope you like it :), Mystery, Protective Gabriel, Protective Nathalie Sancoeur, Young Adrien Agreste, but they're little so it's mostly friends, gabenath, gabriel x nathalie - Freeform, ghost character, it starts out light and gets considerably darker, it's a new style i was interested in trying
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:07:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 18,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27380932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaybeMayura/pseuds/MaybeMayura
Summary: Young Adrien Agreste and his father--renowned detective Gabriel Agreste--have just moved from Paris to a sleepy English town named Idaville. Adrien doesn’t initially understand why, but he takes after his father, and after meeting one scrappy baker’s daughter and solving a few problems with the local kids he starts to stumble upon a darker secret the town is oblivious to. Soon, he’s completely caught in the middle of it.It all starts with the manor on top of the hill.Rated T for general mentions of death. It's a murder mystery, after all....
Relationships: Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir & Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug, Gabriel Agreste | Papillon | Hawk Moth/Nathalie Sancoeur
Comments: 42
Kudos: 51
Collections: GabeNath Book Club and Art Club Server





	1. Prologue: Assorted Materials

**Two passports:**

_de la Republique Francaise_

Gabriel Agreste

July 1880

X__Gabriel Agreste___

_de la Republique Francaise_

Adrien Agreste

September 1887

X__adrien agreste____

* * *

**Two train tickets:**

1 Adult; 1 Child; Paris to Calais;

Departs Eight A.M.; Class 2 Coach; NO RETURNS NO REFUNDS

* * *

**Two ferry tickets:**

#8490 and #8491 aboard _Empress_ ;

Calais to Dover

SINGLE JOURNEY.

* * *

**Two train tickets:**

Dover to London to Idaville;

Departs Three-Fifteen P.M.; Class 2 Coach; One-Way Trip.

* * *

**Telegram:**

ELECTRIC TELEGRAPH COMPANY

To: Gabriel Agreste

September 12, 1887 

Dear Sir, 

I hope this letter finds you in good health. I am writing to request your assistance in a murder case of a few months past, the victim a young newlywed woman of our town. No one person has been able to make headway and we seek outside assistance, for the trail is cold.

Much salutations,

Idaville Chief of Police

Robert Contard. 

Received: __X_


	2. Adrien Agreste and the Case of the Sabotaged Violinist

_Clunk._

Two leather suitcases--one large, one small--hit the wooden desk of the office.

“Well, we’ve arrived,” Gabriel Agreste said, putting his hands on his hips and looking towards his son. The blond boy stood at the window, hands shoved deep in his pockets, looking miserable. 

“Adrien.” 

“Yes, father.” 

“Don’t worry about missing home. We’ll be going back eventually.” 

“When?” 

Gabriel shifted, and stepped towards him. “Whenever my work here is done,” he replied, putting a gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder. 

Adrien sighed. That could mean anything. This town was tiny, and he missed his friends. 

“Why don’t you run along now, and amuse yourself? I must unpack my office.” Gabriel removed the hand. Though light in tone, it was more an order than a suggestion, and Adrien made doggedly for the door. 

Idaville was a tiny town most people had never heard of, in the southwest corner of England. It was topographically flat and generally dull, especially compared to the hustle and bustle of the city, for there was only one main street. Even the weather was English and strange. It was fall, and earlier in the day it had been on the chilly side, but now the midday sun beat down on Adrien’s head so hard he had to unbutton his woolen coat and remove his hat for relief. 

He walked down the cobbled street, quickly finding himself in the town square and taking notice of the buildings surrounding him. A good detective always knew his territory, his father had said. There was a general store. A church. What was probably a bar, next to a bakery. A clothing store that had some rather outdated dress wear in its windows. Nothing particularly interesting for an eleven-year-old. Even in the middle of the day, he could walk down the middle of the road without fear of being cursed at by a carriage driver, as unpopulated as it was.

Already bored, Adrien looked in the window of the general store, glancing over a stack of newspapers reading the day’s date: September 19. The headlines championed: 

_Queen Victoria Celebrates Golden Jubilee: “Thank my beloved people. May God bless them.”_

_No Leads On Months-Old Murder Case; French Detective Brought In._

Another indication of how small the town was, if their arrival was headline news alongside Queen Victoria. 

He knew they had moved because his father had taken a case. He wished he could be a part of the glamour, the drama of solving something important. But any pleas to his father to let him help were met with the same answer: “No meddling, Adrien. These things can be dangerous.” 

The sun hid behind a cloud, the chill of the air picking back up. At least if his mother was still alive, he could have stayed back home in Paris with her.

He stepped away from the window in frustration and drew his leg back to punt a loose chunk of cobblestone down the road, but stopped when he noticed someone standing in his line of fire. 

She looked about his age, with dark hair in two pigtails, wearing a plain wool skirt and jacket. She stood with her legs braced apart and her hands on her hips. One of her stockings had a hole in it. 

“Who are you?” She asked. It was more curious than meant to intimidate, but Adrien was a little startled by her sudden appearance. 

“Nobody,” he replied. He should keep his identity a secret.

She cocked her head. “Well, Mister Nobody, we don’t often get new people in this place. I’d be willing to bet you’re that detective’s son.” She jabbed a finger at the newspaper in the store window. 

Well, he couldn’t deny she was right. And if she put that together, she was perceptive enough. 

“Okay, fine. I’m Adrien. What’s it to you?” 

The girl heel-toed her feet together from their wide stance and pursed her lips. “I have a favor to ask. Are you any good at solving riddles?” Adrien nodded slowly. “Okay. Well...then you’re coming with me!” She lunged out and grabbed his hand, dragging him down the street. 

“Wait!” He shouted, clutching his hat. “What is your name? Where are we going?!”

She looked over her shoulder and grinned. “Marinette,” she replied, and kept running. 

Marinette. Even though he didn’t quite trust her yet, wherever she was taking him sure beat staring in store windows and wishing he hadn’t come here.

* * *

They came upon a small raised platform near the back of the square. A stage, Adrien deduced, likely where people would gather for public announcements. However, the area in front was deserted save for two kids sitting on the edge of the wooden structure. One of them was quietly crying with his head in his hands. He wore a cap like Adrien’s, except it was red, and an instrument case lay closed by his side. 

“There, there, Nino.” A redheaded girl sitting next to him was patting his shoulder. Her tartan skirt had threads of pink. “There will be other competitions.” She looked up as Adrien and Marinette skidded to a panting stop in front of them. 

“Hey chuckaboo. Who did you find?” She asked with a smile. 

“This is Adrien,” Marinette replied. “He’s that flash detective’s son. He’s going to help us figure out what happened to your violin.” 

“I am?” 

“Yeah, you said you would. Nino, tell him what happened.” 

The boy looked up, his brown eyes red. “So, I signed up for the Fall Music Competition, right? My teacher said I was finally good enough to compete this year. I polished my instrument and tuned it and everything so it would be all nice for the show. But when I took it out to tune right before I played, it...it broke!” He sniffled. “It was so embarrassing…”

“Can you show me?” 

Nino opened the case. The poor instrument had a big crack in one of the left seams and two of the strings had snapped. It was, in fact, nicely polished, as well as he could tell. 

“Nino thinks someone sabotaged it,” Marinette explained. 

_Who would resort to sabotage in such a tiny town competition?_ Adrien thought, but kept it to himself. He bent down to look closer and put his hand to his chin in imitation of his father.

“Do you have any suspects? Did anyone touch it except you?” 

“I don’t know...I wasn’t with it for a few minutes before the competition. Yesterday, though, I had it at Alya’s house, and I know her sisters were doing a dance act…” 

Alya pouted. “You’re not accusing my sisters. They’re only five.” 

Nino let out a half smile and wiped his eyes. “I know. But we both know they’re little devils.” 

Adrien nodded. “I have an idea. There’s this newfangled process my father does when he’s working on cases. It’s called ‘dusting for fingerprints’. Let’s see if we can figure out who touched your violin.” He stood up straight, and with the three others in his wake ran back to his father’s new office, suddenly alight with excitement of getting to do something useful. 

* * *

By the time they arrived the sun had resurfaced and the temperature had skyrocketed. Adrien instructed the others to hide around the side of the house while he crept inside. Peering around the door frame, he spied his father humming while shelving his books, precious leather bound volumes that Adrien was intently familiar with. His coat hung over the chair and his briefcase of important detective things lay open on the corner of the desk closest to the boy. 

When had he gotten attached to these kids enough to nick his father’s belongings for them? Probably when they provided him that thrilling feeling of working on a case. 

He waited until his father’s back was turned again before dropping to the floor and crawling across the carpet to hide in the shadow of the desk. Reaching up, his hands found the glass jar of dark powder and the brush and pilfered them before scrambling from the room, heart pounding in his ears. 

He found Marinette’s nose pressed to the glass window. “Your father is very tall,” she said. 

“Yes. I know. Tall and scary. Let’s hope he doesn’t notice this stuff is missing before I can return it or I’ll never be let outside again. Get down,” he said, and she took her face away. 

They opened the violin case again and Adrien began to dust the instrument with the powder in the way he had watched his father do. A cold breeze blew again, and some of it scudded off. 

“Darn it,” he muttered. 

Alya frowned at the sky. “The weather has been up and down like this all week. It’s strange.” 

“You mean for months, now,” Marinette corrected. “It used to be very mild here.” 

“Is there somewhere we can go inside?” Adrien queried. 

“Yes, let’s go to my house,” Nino replied. 

They jogged off with Nino in the lead, clutching his instrument case to his chest, down the main street, a side street; another turn and the buildings fell away to a more open property of heather and brush on their left, encircled by a high wall. Adrien slowed as he noticed an iron gate three times his height set into the brick.

“What’s this?” He asked, stopping and peering through the bars. In the distance, a large manor house sat up on a hill, the only elevation change in what seemed like the entire countryside. The others circled back and stood around him. 

“We call that the Red House,” Marinette said, with some hesitation. “Queer things happen up there. I’d go investigate, but it’s always been locked.” She pointed to above Adrien’s head, where a massive metal padlock hung. 

“Come on, let’s go,” Nino beckoned, looking up at the house uneasily. “I don’t like this place.” They jogged off again, and Adrien looked over his shoulder at the house one more time. It sat grim and closed on its hill and bored into his mind. 

* * *

“Okay, here we go,” Adrien said. They were all four eagerly crowded around Nino’s family’s humble kitchen table, the violin case open in front of them. Adrien tried to seem as professional as he could as he dusted the instrument all over. The powder stuck to the polish so it was hard to see, but one by one the faint semicircles of fingerprints began to show up on the body. 

“Brother, that’s so cool,” Nino leaned in to peer at them. Adrien grinned. For fun, they had inked each of the group’s fingerprints on a piece of paper by borrowing Nino’s parents’ inkwell, and he brought it around to compare for the first round of eliminations. 

“Looks like….well, it looks like they’re all yours, Nino.” 

“Oh,” he replied, deflating. The group sat in pensive silence.

The sun came out from behind a cloud, and a beam of warm light fell across the kitchen table, illuminating swirling powder motes. Adrien felt the warmth on his hand, and something tickled the back of his mind as he looked at the warm glow of the shiny wooden instrument in the light.

“Wait. Alya, Marinette. You said the weather has been extreme as of late. Nino, when was the last time you played your instrument out-of-doors?” 

The boy sat back, thinking. “I don’t know. I don’t think I ever have. It stays in the case when I walk to my lessons.” 

Adrien nodded. “I wonder: could the weather have done it?” 

“What do you mean?” 

Marinette’s eyes lit up. “No, he could be right. You know how wooden houses always make creaking noises when the seasons change?” 

Adrien looked at her in surprise. “Yes, exactly. I feel like I read something in one of my father’s books that said wood can change shape when it gets wet, or warm, or too cold. I wonder if when you took it out to play today, the temperature changed and the strings got too tight and broke the body.” 

Nino slowly nodded. “I do remember having to take off my jacket because I was too warm.” 

Alya laughed. “Well, it sounds like it’s decided. That was anticlimactic. But at least we know that you don’t have a rival musician to duel, because they’d probably beat you.” 

Nino grinned. “Yeah. At least. Wait, hey-!” He went for her, and she jumped up from her chair, giggling and miming playing a beginner violin. 

The chime of the clock reverberated through the room and Adrien’s head and pulled his attention from the amusing scene. He had been gone for nearly three hours, and his father might be getting worried. He stood and gathered the fingerprinting implements. “Thank you for having me, but I have to return these before I get in trouble.” 

“I’ll show you the way back,” Marinette said, and followed. “See you, Nino, and I hope your violin gets fixed!” 

They waved and he two of them jogged back down the streets. Past the big iron gate, the two turns, the square. The sun seemed out to stay, for now. When they got back to Adrien’s residence, Marinette turned to him.

“Say, you’re pretty sharp, Agreste. We could use you around. How long are you here for?” 

“I never know.” 

“Well, until you go…” she stuck out her hand. “...partners in crime?” 

“You mean ‘in stopping crime,’” he said, smiling, and shook it. 

* * *

Some time earlier, Gabriel had gotten everything set up in his office. 

It was a nice little place, a house with blue siding and white detailing with a turret and wraparound porch. The office was furnished with sepia wallpaper and fine furniture in dark wood, that complemented the red oriental rug. There were two upstairs bedrooms for him and Adrien to occupy, a small kitchen, and a parlor. He sighed and sat down in his desk chair. He was lucky that England was experiencing an economic rise and rent was cheap. 

He had opened the window to get rid of some of the mustiness from being closed up through the change of seasons, and the late evening air coming in ruffled the heavy window drapes. 

A knock came at the door. “Come in,” he called, and stood up as it opened. Two men in dark coats and glasses stepped through the tiny entrance hall into the office, the star-shaped badges on their chests denoting them members of the local police department.

“Greetings, Monsieur,” one said, and they shook hands before the man offered Gabriel a folder tucked under his arm. “Your case materials.” Gabriel thanked them and they exchanged a few pleasantries before making a swift exit. 

Once the door was shut, he moved to the document. As he placed his hand on the cover to open it, one of those icier breezes that had been intermittently blowing through all day ruffled the pages and made his hair stand on end, and on it he thought he heard a woman’s faint laugh. But as quickly as it came, it faded. 

He shook himself. He closed the window, and opened the folder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! In a crack shot of inspiration, I have a new fic based on leftover prompts from Spooky Season. It's something like Miraculous meets Classic Lit meets Encyclopedia Brown meets Buzzfeed Unsolved, set in Victorian times. I have wanted to write in a historical setting for quite some time now, so I hope it is done Justice. 
> 
> I can promise that although it starts out light and innocuous, it gets much darker. As in, slow and painful descent into madness. 
> 
> That being said, Happy Reading!
> 
> \---
> 
> Chapter 1 Prompt: "partners in crime"


	3. Adrien Agreste and the Case of the Kleptomaniac

“Goodbye, father. Have a good day,” Adrien called as he left the front hall, school bag in hand. Gabriel watched him out the window, lanky boy legs pumping as he ran down the street, his golden hair ruffling in the breeze.

It reminded Gabriel so much of his wife’s. 

His beautiful, loving wife; his Emilie. Dead in a tragic accident that Gabriel had never been able to solve, and his failure plagued him every second of his existence. Adrien looked more and more like her as he had gotten older, to the point where Gabriel sometimes had to look away.He knew his profession exposed his family to danger, which was why he needed to keep an eye on Adrien as much as he could. To protect him. Especially after what happened to his wife.

But the child needed to go to school, and Gabriel needed quiet time to work. The virtue of this small town over the city was that at least his son wouldn't be far away. Nothing could happen to him here, right? 

The thought brought him comfort as he returned to his work, though he quickly found himself frustrated. The case file held startlingly few pieces of evidence, so it was not surprising it remained unsolved. There were a few documents to sort through: witness accounts of finding the woman’s body, police statements, some handwritten journal entries. Apparently the event had happened at that manor on the hill. 

When he had confronted the chief of police--a sweaty and nervous character with a protruding gut--about the lack of evidence and potentially searching the manor itself, the man had reluctantly admitted that the key to the gates had been misplaced. 

“I swore I had it,” he had said, tremulously wiping his large, slick forehead. “It was in my desk drawer. I’m very sorry.” 

Gabriel had nodded stiffly, and went to investigate himself. The lock was much too big to saw; the wrought iron bars too thick to warp enough to fit an adult body through. The walls would require additional help to scale, and what then? How would leave with his findings? Now even more frustrated, he had returned to his office to read. 

He had ended up falling asleep in his desk chair, the stress of the recent move having tired him immensely. He dreamed of a woman with dark hair. 

* * *

The school Adrien had been enrolled in was the only one in the town, a smart brick building one block off the town square, with arched windows and neatly trimmed shrubbery. Switching schools wasn’t new to him, even at eleven, but this school was so tiny that everyone their age fit in just one classroom. However, it certainly helped that he already had a few acquaintances from the adventures of a few days prior. 

He hung his coat on an available hook and walked into the main room, where everyone was talking while waiting for class to start. However, one voice rose to his ears above the rest. 

“What do you  _ mean,  _ someone stole your hair-clip, Chloe?” 

“I’m telling you, Mari _ nette, _ I had it, and now it’s gone! I want to know what  _ you _ did with it!” 

Marinette scrunched up her face and put her hands on her hips. “Well I don’t have it. I’d be willing to bet you just lost it, like the dollymop you are--” 

“What’s going on?” Adrien asked the two girls. 

Marinette sighed. “Chloe thinks someone stole her hair clip. She probably just lost it.”

“It was a birthday present from my father! It was  _ expensive! _ ” 

Marinette looked like she was ready to throttle the other girl, hands balled into fists and posture as taut as a bowstring, when the teacher entered the room. “Okay, whatever,” she muttered, walking past Adrien to her seat to flop into it and pillow her chin on her arms. 

“Ah, our new student!” The woman beamed at him. “Come up to the front and introduce yourself!” 

Adrien did, but his attention was caught on Marinette’s and Chloe’s angry faces. 

* * *

“Marinette, she seems really upset about this. Perhaps we should give it an investigation?” Adrien asked. It was morning recess, and she still looked mad. 

“You don’t understand,” she replied. “Chloe is the mayor’s daughter. She’s  _ always  _ pulling attention-stunts like this.” 

Adrien shrugged. “Well, maybe she wouldn’t have a reason to complain anymore if it gets found…?” 

“You’d be surprised,” Marinette scoffed. “But you’re probably right. It might award us temporary relief...” 

Adrien nodded, wondering if she could really be  _ that  _ bad, and walked over to the blonde girl sitting on a bench against the school wall with her redheaded friend. “Hello,” he started. 

She looked up. “Detective boy? Agreste? Are you going to help me find my hair clip? It’s silver, it has a bee on it--though  _ you  _ would probably know that already, Marinette Dupain, since  _ you  _ probably took it,” she shot at the approaching Marinette, who immediately got back up in her face.

“Take that back,” she growled, raising her fist. Chloe made a strangled sound and plastered herself against the building, but since they weren’t inside there was no teacher to intervene. 

“Marinette,  _ please, _ ” Adrien said. She grumbled, but stepped back. “Okay, Chloe. When was the last time you remembered having it?” 

“I don’t know!” she wailed, immediately the picture of a distraught diva.

Adrien grit his teeth, but he couldn’t stop now. He had to be a professional. 

“Then think.” 

She narrowed her eyes at him. “In the coatroom, I suppose.” 

“Great,” he replied. “Let’s go.” 

A thorough search of the coats and the floor of the building’s antechamber yielded nothing. Marinette sighed and kicked the door frame absentmindedly. “This is a waste of time.” Chloe glared at her, but didn’t dare challenge her fists. 

In the light spilling from the door frame, Adrien thought he spied a thread of something hanging from Chloe’s coat. He caught it and held it up to the light. 

“Marinette, do you know anyone in class with long brown hair?” 

Her eyebrows raised slowly in surprised realization. “I think I do,” she replied, beckoning for her to follow him. 

But the teacher came out and rang the bell before they could find their target, and they were forced to return to class. 

* * *

“What are we doing in the bushes? I thought we were going to follow someone,” Adrien asked, and Marinette shushed him. 

“Watch.” 

They were outposted in a heathery thicket on the edge of school property, looking towards the back of the building. It was after school, so they were free to do whatever they wanted with their afternoon. “I still don’t see--”

Marinette pointed. “ _ Lila,”  _ she said, and sure enough, a girl with long locks tied back was coming around the corner. She disappeared into the hedges. “What is she  _ doing?”  _ Marinette said, with narrowed eyes. “Can’t see her anymore.” 

“Definitely suspicious,” Adrien replied. “What do you know about her?” 

“Well, her father is the Chief of Police, and her mother runs an art museum. And she’s a compulsive liar.” 

“Oh?” 

“Yes. That’s why she has no friends. Look, she’s leaving,” and she was. “Now’s our chance.”

After the girl turned the corner the duo stood up, trying to make as little noise as possible, and tiptoed over to the hedges. It took some rummaging to find the correct one, but once they did, a miniature pile of stolen treasure was in their hands. 

Chloe’s hair clip, for one. Also a screwdriver, a gold-colored door hinge, two silver spoons, an inordinate amount of pocket change, a medallion, a broken tiara, and a large, bronze key. 

Marinette gaped. “Holy magpies. A compulsive liar  _ and  _ a prig, apparently. I bet the hair clip wasn’t the only thing to go missing in the past week.” She pocketed a few pence. 

“You don’t say,” Adrien ran his fingers over the key. It was oversize, and for some reason it felt important. “What’s a prig?” 

“Thief,” Marinette replied, and gasped. “She’s coming back! Run!” She shoved Adrien in the back, and the sound of crunching footsteps quickened. He scooped up the hair clip and on second thought grabbed the giant key. He yelped, as it was heavier than he expected, and it cost him a precious moment as he chased Marinette around the other side of the building. 

“Who’s that? Who’s there?!” Lila’s voice called, which was followed by a frustrated scream as she realized her stash had been raided. 

The two of them ran like the wind until they were well off school property, adrenaline pumping through their veins. 

“Marinette...wait….stop,” Adrien panted, putting his hands on his knees and bending over to catch his breath. She did the same.

“Yoo-hoo! Detective boy!” Chloe was calling him from across the street, ignoring Marinette. “Did you find my hair clip?” He walked over and placed it in her outstretched hand. 

“Oo, I  _ told  _ you it was stolen,” she purred. “Thank you, Adri-kins...can I call you Adri-kins?” 

“Um. No,” he gulped, and started to walk away. Marinette gagged.

“Okay, bye, Adri-kins!” He was relieved to see her go. 

They started walking down the road, and he looked down at the key still clutched in his fist. 

“Why did you grab that?” his partner asked, perplexed. 

“It reminded me of something,” he replied. “You know the other day when we were going to fingerprint Nino’s violin, and we passed that gate…” 

Marinette stopped dead. “You’re mad as  _ hops _ ,” she said. “You don’t think it’s the  _ key to the Red House,  _ do you?” 

Adrien grinned. “Well, the only way to find out is to try it.” 

* * *

A short time later, the two of them found themselves staring up at the imposing gates, having second thoughts. If it worked, what would they do next?

“How did Lila even  _ get  _ this thing?” Adrien asked, hefting it in his hand. 

“Well....like I said, her father is the Chief of Police. So I’m assuming since the house is now abandoned, they have the key and the deed…?” 

“Do you think she even knows what it goes to?” 

“I don’t know. But she nicks things. She’s can’t be up to anything good.” Marinette looked up at the gates and then over at Adrien. “Does this count as breaking and entering?” 

“I think if you have the key, then it’s just entering.”  _ But what my father would say might be different.  _ However, he wanted to know if it worked. He needed to know. 

“Partners in crime, this time.” 

“Partners in crime.” 

Upon some quick assessment, they found that neither of them could reach the lock from where it hung. It took a bit of maneuvering, but soon enough Marinette was on Adrien’s shoulders, and he passed her the key, and she stuck her tongue out in concentration as she slipped it into the lock and turned it as hard as she could. 

The gate opened. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Something in the bushes"


	4. CASE FILE: The Murder of Mlle. Sancoeur; Miscellaneous Files; Page 3

June 13th, 1886

I am writing this because it makes me feel better, to record the happy moments in these uncertain times. 

To-day I happened upon my wedding dress in my closet, and it filled me with all the same joy of just six months ago, when William and I were married. It is a beautiful dress, with its fine laces imported from Paris, and white silk that is the smoothest thing I have ever touched. It was necessary to re-wrap it, to check for those incorrigible little moths that like to eat silk, but since there were none, I am happy. 

Now that I think about it, after that, a very Curious Thing happened. I was looking at the wall paper, considering ripping it up, re-doing this room. It might at least give me something to do. When suddenly, I was overcome with a spasm of pain in my stomach. And then the moment passed, and I thought, how silly of me. It is beautiful paper. My husband would be so disappointed if I decided to change the paper, and I adore him. If it weren’t for what happened to the baby…

I must confess my constitution has been weaker than it was before. I do not know that it is cause for concern. 

But I digress. This is to record the happy moments. 

As always, yours. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “Her old wedding dress"


	5. Adrien Agreste and the Case of the Howling House

The noise kept coming. 

A faint moaning; something that could have been the wind but was far more random, and _just_ loud enough that it kept interrupting Gabriel’s focus. He put his hands over his ears as his eyes traced the same line of text for the fifth time. 

_“I said this was to record happy moments…”_

_Wooooo,_ came the noise, and Gabriel cursed and snapped the folder shut. He would not be working today. 

His son’s footsteps on the stairs came to his ears, and he went and leaned in the office doorway. 

“Ah, Adrien. Where are you headed?” 

The boy turned, hand on the front door’s knob. “Oh, I was going to meet up with a friend,” he replied. 

“A friend?” 

“A girl I met at school.” 

“A girl.” Gabriel’s eyebrow raised, and Adrien’s eyes widened. 

“No! No, not like that. Her name is Marinette, and she’s very smart, and, er, I’ve been solving cases with her.” 

“Cases, now.” 

Adrien scratched the back of his neck, wishing his father would stop repeating the ends of his sentences. “Yes. We figured out what happened to Nino’s violin, it was the weather, you see--” 

Gabriel held up his hand, relief echoing through his posture. “As long as you stay out of trouble and use good judgement, you may go.” He turned back into the office. 

Adrien’s hand hesitated on the knob for only a moment before opening it and flying through, skipping the stairs on the porch in one giant leap. 

It had been a few days since he and Marinette had dared open the gate. Then, they had only ventured a few paces from the safety of the exit, marveling in the fact that they were _inside,_ but the grounds were extensive and their parents were expecting them home from school, so they left on that excuse to save the exploration for another day. 

They definitely weren’t afraid. No, sir. 

But there was noise echoing through the town, and it smelled of another case to solve. 

“We think it’s coming from the Red House,” Marinette explained to Alya and Nino as the four of them traipsed down the street in the direction of the long brick wall. It was a chilly, creepy, overcast day that blew Marinette’s skirts around her ankles and made Adrien turn up his collar. 

Nino faltered. “No way you’re going in there again! Are you insane?” They had told the other two about finding the key, which was currently held inside Adrien’s jacket pocket and clenched fist. 

“Um, _yes_ way!” Alya replied with an excited glint in her eye. “I’m _dying_ to see what’s inside. It could be a top-notch story!”

Nino groaned and covered his face. “You’re _all_ insane,” he muttered, but he kept following them, and Adrien smiled to himself. 

Soon, they were at the gate, and Marinette climbed on Adrien’s shoulders again to unlock it. It swung open with an ominous creak of rusty hinges. 

_Wooooo…._

“See, I told you. It’s definitely louder,” Marinette said, and wriggled in through the gap. Once they were all through they rested it shut so it would look to the casual passerby the picture of normalcy.

They were now in the territory where no Idaville child had dared venture before. The moorish grasses encroached upon the driveway, abandoned as the property had been for almost a year without maintenance. The long, dry tendrils whispered in the wind like a chorus of voices, and Nino swallowed nervously.

Adrien felt nothing but the thrill of discovery. Finally, something _truly interesting_ was happening in this drab little town. The only thing to dampen his excitement was his father’s voice echoing in the back of his mind: _Use good judgement._ Well, he was with others, so he would be safe. 

_Woooooo…!_

The four of them moved up the path, with Marinette charging ahead in the lead and Nino bringing up the rear. As the manor house grew closer and closer, so did the apparent proximity of the moaning noise. It had a curiously inhuman quality, and it almost echoed, to the point where none of them could pinpoint it. 

Nino sneezed. It made the others jump. “Sorry,” he said sheepishly, rubbing his nose. “Whenever I’m around too much grass, I get itchy and my nose runs. It’s happened ever since I was little.” 

Adrien pondered. “You might be what the scientists have started calling ‘allergic’,” he replied. “It’s like a temporary cold.” 

“Al-lergic, huh. What an interesting idea.” They laughed, and it broke the tension, and they continued on. 

The Red House was aptly named, for it was entirely of brick, with a roof of reddish slate shingles. It was bigger up close, having countless windows, several chimneys, and a pointed arch over a perceived entryway. The entire structure was overgrown with vines, and a few scrubby bush-trees grew close around it. The doors and windows were boarded, and it made Adrien think of a sleeping beast, ready to awaken and devour the four of them. 

Woooooo… 

Marinette’s ears perked up. “Okay, we should split up. In pairs,” she said to Nino’s stricken face. “Nino, you go with Alya. See if you can see in any of the windows, or check the bushes. Adrien and I will go around back.” 

Alya nodded in determination and grabbed Nino’s hand. “Come on, scaredy boy, we’ve got a noise to find!” He promptly sneezed again, his expression resigned to his fate as he was dragged along.

Adrien and Marinette crept around the back of the building. It was plainer than the front, and more cluttered. A wooden framework that looked like a collapsed easel rested against the wall, some rusted cans lay in the dirt, and a large ragged cloth flapped in the chill breeze, stuck partially under a pile of bricks. There was a back entry door that was not boarded. Marinette yanked on the handle, but it was stuck fast.

Adrien suddenly noticed that they hadn’t heard the noise again. _Strange,_ he thought. 

He turned away from the building and looked out over the expanse of tall grass that made up the back lawn. How did you get so rich as to have this much land? His father wasn’t exactly poor, but whomever had owned this house had wealth beyond his wildest dreams. 

A shout came from the front of the house. Marinette and Adrien looked at one another and without a word charged around the corner. 

Nino was pointing at a bush that Alya was advancing on, a leafy branch held defensively in her hand. “I saw it move! I did! It wasn’t the wind...a-a _choo!_ I don’t like this place, it’s creepy. Good _bye!”_ He said, and took off running down the lane.

Alya dropped her branch and ran after him. “Nino, wait!” 

Adrien and Marinette had no choice but to follow, unless they wanted to be left alone up on the hill.

* * *

The four of them ended up in the town’s tiny print shop, the sole establishment producing the local newspaper, the _Idaville Times,_ and where Alya worked as an apprentice _._ Since it was a Sunday, nobody else was in the shop but them. She sat on the counter and swung her legs. 

“What do you think it could be? The noise, that is.”

“Marinette and I didn’t find anything around the back of the house. It’s clear nobody’s been in here for a while,” Adrien replied. 

Alya’s eyes rounded. “You don’t think it could be a _ghost,_ do you?” She queried. 

Adrien shook his head. “I don’t believe in ghosts. My father says there’s always a logical explanation for every problem.” 

Nino sneezed three times in quick succession, groaning as he wiped his nose. Alya tugged a sheet of old newspaper dated from the previous year from the bottom of a reject pile and handed it to him. “Here, blow your nose on this,” she offered, and Nino took it gratefully.

Adrien’s brain absentmindedly caught on the words as his friend honked into the sheet. Some of the letters had been cut off, and he couldn’t quite catch the headline. 

_Trage-y of Hilltop Man-r Fire: Building Bur--; N-wlywed M------ Found D---_

_WOOOOOOO…!_

Four heads jerked up. 

“That’s it! That’s it again!” Marinette cried and burst out the back door, everyone--even a reluctant Nino--scrambling after her. 

“Well, _I_ believe in ghosts. And if I meet one, I might just _become_ one out of shock,” he muttered to nobody in particular. 

* * *

_Wooo...ooo!_

They spread out around the house again, fueled by nervous excitement while looking for the source of the sound.

_Wooo…_

Adrien thought it might be coming from a back corner he and Marinette had not fully inspected. As he rounded it, he noticed part of the chimney had crumpled near the manor’s foundation, and a few loose bricks created a hole just big enough to stick his arm through, if he dared. He crouched down and tried to peer inside, but it was too dark to see properly. 

Something skittered, and he jerked his head back. “Come over here…!” He shouted to his friends, and they ran around to join him. 

“What is it?” 

“Something moved in the chimney!” 

Alya had her branch again, and she poked part of it into the gap experimentally. It floundered for a tantalizing moment before it all of a sudden it _jerked,_ and she yelped, and yanked, and out from the opening, pulling in opposition with all its might came....

...a puppy. 

“Oh thank _heavens,”_ Nino said, and sat down hard on the ground. “That really had me going there.” 

Marinette laughed. “Ghosts can’t touch things, Nino. It couldn’t have been a ghost playing tug-of-war with Alya.” 

_Awoooo,_ the puppy barked, its sound much smaller now. It was a little fluffy ball of caramel fur, wagging its tail so hard it looked as if it might fall off. Adrien glanced up at the towering chimney. “I wonder...I wonder if the chimney was making it echo like that.” 

“You could be right,” Alya replied. She waved her branch and the puppy chased the fluttering leaves. “Aw, you’re so sweet,” she cooed. 

“What are we going to do with him?” Marinette asked. 

“Well, I can’t take him,” Adrien replied. “My father and I have that ‘allergy’ thing, but with dogs.” 

“I can,” Nino spoke up. “C’mere boy! C’mere!” he beckoned, and the puppy tromped into his lap. He laughed as it excitedly tried to lick his hands.

“Well, it looks like we’ve solved another case,” Marinette said, turning to Adrien. She held out her fist. He stood there, perplexed. “Come on, ‘bump’ me,” she urged. He curled his fingers and touched his knuckles to hers, and she exchanged one with Alya and Nino, who scooped up the dog as he stood.

The five of them began to walk back down the long drive, the house at their backs seeming marginally more friendly for the discovery of its fluffy occupant. Nino at least looked much more relaxed. Adrien watched him scrub the puppy’s ears as Marinette and Alya talked about some girl thing from school. It was funny, he thought absentmindedly, that he wasn’t sneezing in the presence of the dog like Nino was with the grass. 

The sun came out and brightened the path, and as its rays hit the puppy’s fur the dog almost looked _transparent._ Adrien blinked, and in that fraction of a second it was gone. It must have been a trick of the light. 

What he didn’t notice was the pair of angry eyes in the moor grass as they exited the gate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “Abandoned footpath”


	6. CASE FILE: The Murder of Mlle. Sancoeur, Miscellaneous files, page 13

October 20th, 1886. 

William bought me a puppy last week. He said it would make me feel better. But it started acting strangely a few days into living here, and yesterday, it died, and I have cried most sorrowfully. I have not cried like this since the baby was lost. 

My husband thinks it must have been the runt of the litter, weak in heart and lungs. I must believe him, I must, for it is the only explanation. He is so clever, with his architecture talk and all his drawings and paintings, those intricate patterns for wall paper. I adore him, I do. 

I said this was to record happy moments, but oh, I must write it down in hopes it makes me feel better, for I have nothing else to do. William does not approve of me writing, so you must be hidden, my dear. 

It doesn’t make me miss the pup any less. 

As always, yours. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "new pet, but it's acting strange"


	7. Adrien Agreste and the Case of the Living Painting

It was a pleasant fall evening on the cusp of night, and Gabriel and Adrien were out on the town. 

The local art museum--a small affair run out of the parlor of one of the women of the town--was having a portraiture exhibition, and Gabriel thought it a practical opportunity to begin keeping tabs on some of the residents. 

The parlor was warm and bright and full of guests talking and laughing over glasses and hors d'oeuvres, milling about in their sunday clothes. It seemed as if most everyone was there. Interesting that a mere art exhibition would draw such a crowd, but Gabriel supposed events happened at such a rare frequency that the residents jumped at any sort of socialization. 

He had to admit, the madame’s portraiture collection was impressive. Paintings of all variants and sizes lined the parlor and down the hall, bordered in anything from simple wood to ornate bronze frames. Gabriel pretended to study a few, for if he appeared engaged in the art he could observe while escaping the detested necessity of meaningless banter. 

Adrien looked bored, he noted. He pulled at his starched collar and shuffled his feet in his good shoes. It occurred to Gabriel that this was not the most exciting outing to take your eleven-year-old son. 

“You don’t have to stay by me,” Gabriel said, taking pity on him. “Go see to the food; I thought I spied some decent variants of cheese.” Adrien nodded and disappeared into the throng of much taller adult bodies. 

Soon enough the warmth and volume of the room was too much for Gabriel’s senses to bear, and he stepped out into the hall. It was dimmer and cooler and he found himself pleased to give the details of the art his full attention; the exquisite lines and brushstrokes, the care of a painter’s hand as they captured a human face....

 _There._ Something had moved out of the corner of his eye. Curious, for it was his nature, he began to move towards the end of the hall. The painting mounted there was one of the largest in the collection, about a meter tall and half as wide, and housed in an ornate bronze frame. He peered at it, because it felt familiar. 

It was a half-bust of a woman looking to be some twenty- to twenty-five years of age, with blue eyes and dark hair pulled into a bun. The initials ‘W.M.’ were inscribed into the corner with a flourish. She smiled a close-lipped smile that seemed a touch sad. 

Ah, yes. She fit the description of the dead woman from his case. Somewhat. That must be why. However, it might not necessarily be her. 

Thankfully, it was as stony and unmoving as a painting should be. He rubbed his eyes. He must be seeing things. His work had been wearing on him; he hadn’t stepped foot outside the house in days. Late yesterday evening he even thought he heard a voice call his name from the dim corner of his office as he nodded half-awake, but there had been nobody there. He hadn’t been sleeping well. 

Nevertheless, it never hurt to examine things more closely... He leaned in, intending on scouring every inch of the canvas.

“Good evening, sir. How are you finding the exhibition?” 

Gabriel jumped back. A portly woman with dark hair and Italian features was smiling up at him. He cleared his throat and adjusted his tie. “Very well, Missus…?” 

“Contard, but you may call me Clara,” she replied good-naturedly, and he inclined his head politely. “I curate this collection. As a matter ‘o fact, we just had the museum renovated in the new Electric Light. All the better to see the artwork, no?” she beamed. 

“Yes… to see it…” Gabriel replied, still a bit rattled from her sudden appearance. “Actually, I was wondering about this particular work. Would you happen to know of its subject?” 

Her smile faltered, just in the slightest. “Yes, for that matter. This was painted by the artist and printmaker W. Morris of his wife, some time before they were married. It is quite exquisite.” 

He nodded. “I certainly agree. What of her now?” 

Clara shifted. “Well...she is…no longer alive.”

Gabriel’s eyebrows raised. “Really.” 

“Yes. Though, between us, I can confess to having conversed with her in person when she came into town on the odd occasion to shop. Demure little thing. Did not appear she was used to having the sort of money or society she married into, if you understand what I mean. But as to her fate,” She lowered her voice and put up a conspiratorial hand, “some things are better left untold.” She winked, but it felt odd. She knew something, Gabriel’s instincts said.

Clara straightened and clasped her hands together before continuing briskly. “Well then! Would you care for a drink? I can have Lila bring you one...Lila, _mia bella_? Where has that girl gotten off to…?!” 

“I’m fine, thank you,” he replied, but she was already bustling off looking for her daughter. 

Gabriel’s hand went to his chin as he turned back to the painting. 

So his suspicions were confirmed. His victim and the painting’s subject were one and the same. He stood close again, and took it upon himself to memorize the details of her face.

* * *

Adrien was nibbling on a piece of cheese when he spied a familiar figure hunched in the corner. 

“Hey, Marinette,” he said, walking over. Her head jerked up in surprise. She appeared to be writing something in a blank notepad, and she covered whatever it was with her hand. 

“Oh! Adrien. I didn’t know you’d be here.” 

“Same to you. I’m bored. What are you doing?” She hesitated, but showed him the pad. 

She was drawing one of the portraits with a charcoal stick smudged on rough paper, her fingers smudged black. “Say, you’re pretty good,” he appraised it, leaning forward. 

Her mouth quirked. “Not very, but I’m trying.” She pulled it back close to her chest, seemingly lacking in some of her usual vivacity.

“Wait. Where are your parents?” Adrien queried. “I don’t recall you ever saying to me where you lived.” 

Marinette sighed. “My family owns the town bakery. They go to bed early so they can get up early to start the bread, so it’s maddeningly easy for me to sneak out in the evenings.” 

“Ooh. You should nick me a cake.” 

“No way. They’d notice it’s missing.” 

“A croissant?” 

“Maybe....right, because you’re french.” 

“What? They’re good.” 

She smiled as they exited the parlor so they could hear one another better. Adrien took another bite of cheese and they stopped in front of a different painting so Marinette could sketch it. Her tongue poked out of her mouth in concentration. 

“Oh, drat.” She muttered. “I’ve made one eye bigger than the other.” 

Adrien peered over her shoulder. “I mean it looks good to me. I’m guessing you didn’t learn to draw from your parents?” 

She tapped her pencil to her lips. “No. They want me to be a baker, but I don’t. I can’t wait to get out of this town. I want to be an artist. A fashion designer.”

“You’d like Paris, then. There’s a lot going on there,” he replied, hit with a sudden wave of homesickness. 

“I mean, speaking of parents...what is your father doing?” she gestured down the hall with her pencil stick. The senior Agreste stood alone, staring intently at a painting at the very end.

Adrien sighed. “I never know, really. Ever since Mother died, he’s been in a funk. I just try to be there for him.” 

“Sounds like both of us have family issues.” Adrien half smiled, and watched his father as he straightened, _hmphed,_ and exited. 

“Ooh, let’s go see what he was looking at!” Marinette suggested, and jogged off, and Adrien was relieved to hear her excitement again. The two of them stood in front of the portrait.

“I mean, it looks like a painting to me,” Adrien said, generally unimpressed. 

Marinette shrugged and drew a few lines. “Something’s weird about the eyes, though.”

“What do you mean?” 

“Look. They seem really...bright,” she pointed. “It’s like...It’s like….” Adrien frowned and stepped up close, rising to his tiptoes to get a better vantage point. 

As soon as he did, something snapped. The lights fizzled and the house was plunged into darkness. 

Adrien gave a surprised shout and stumbled back, as confused exclamations from guests poured out from the parlor down the hall. 

_“Adriennnn….Marinette…..”_ A disembodied voice warbled from somewhere around them. _“You are guilty of horrible things…!”_

The two of them backed up, grasping for the wall, and bumped into one another back-to-back. “We’re not afraid of you,” Marinette retorted. She looked around, eyes wide, but she could see nobody.

“I don’t believe in ghosts, so you can cut it out, wherever you are,” Adrien added with the barest of a quiver. Though spirits didn’t spook him, he _did_ harbor the primal human fear of the dark. Marinette’s hand found his and their fingers twined together, hers dry and dusty with charcoal.

 _“If you steal from others, penance will come to haunt youuuu…”_ It echoed, and made him shiver. But only a little. 

Adrien narrowed his eyes in the black, trying to narrow in on the source of the sound. Steal…? He and Marinette hadn’t stolen anything, right? Except maybe the key to the gate. But who would know about that? 

His eyes had adjusted to the dark by this point, so he could faintly make out the burnished bronze of the portrait frame. Something glinted gold at the edge that he hadn’t seen before from the angle, something that wasn’t the same type of metal as the frame. He stepped towards it. 

_“You owe someone an apooology….”_ the voice continued. It felt close. 

Almost as if it was directly in front of them.

Adrien squeezed Marinette’s hand.“I need your help,” he said softly. “We need to try and pull it off the wall.” 

“Why?” 

“I think I see hinges.”

She nodded in the darkness. “I trust your judgement,” she replied, and together they stepped towards it and put their hands on the frame determinedly. 

_“What are you doing…? Wait, stop!”_ The voice came, steepening to a shrill panic and reaffirming Adrien’s gut decision. 

“Marinette, pull!” He grunted, and together they yanked. The wall on which the painting was mounted swung open in a cloud of dust, and the two of them fell on their rears, coughing. 

“What’s going on?!” Came a stern man’s voice, and Adrien looked up to see his father and a few other adults hurrying towards them, illuminated lanterns in hand. Some of the rocking beams of light fell into the newly discovered crevice, and cringing and shielding their eyes from the light was….

“ _Lila..?”_ Clara Contard’s shocked voice gasped through the space. “What are you...?” 

“It’s not what it looks like!” She protested weakly, the disconcerting echo of her voice gone. Adrien saw by her side a glinting length of pipe that she must have used to create the effect. 

“Oh, I think it’s _exactly_ what it looks like..!” her mother frowned and grabbed her by the forearm. 

“You’ve been trying to avoid serving the guests! Oh, what an embarrassment, _my own daughter_...come, and no dinner for you tonight!” She dragged her protesting daughter away, leaving a small crowd of confused citizenry. 

Gabriel stared at Adrien for a moment, new realizations blossoming in his head, before looking away and stepping into the wall niche to shine his lantern. “Ah,” he exclaimed, kneeling and gesturing to a metal panel with wires springing from it. “It appears she disconnected the fuse box. The builders must have created this room while installing the electricity. How she managed to figure all of that out I’m not sure, but things will be right as rain as soon as I...yes,” he exclaimed as he replaced the offending metal strip and the electric lights slowly flickered back on. The handful of adults exchanged positive reactions, and Gabriel let out a half-smile as he stood. 

“What’s a fuse box? Marinette whispered in Adrien’s ear from where they still sat on the floor. 

“I haven’t the foggiest idea,” he whispered back. 

“Apparently, it’s magic,” she let out a light laugh, and he did the same. 

“You know there’s no such thing." 

* * *

The walk home for the two Agrestes was passed mostly in silence under the warm flickering light of the street lamps. 

Until Gabriel spoke. “Son.” 

“Yes, father?” 

“I couldn’t help but notice you were instrumental in revealing the truth today.” 

“Yes, father.” 

“Might I ask how you came about it?” 

“Oh,” Adrien scuffed his shoe on the road, sending loose gravel clattering. “Marinette said the painting’s eyes were weird, and then I saw the hinges hidden by the frame, and thought maybe it opened, and Lila was in the wall. I guess she was using it to spy on us, because she was stealing things at school and we found her out there, too,” he replied. 

Gabriel hummed. “That was well-deduced.” 

“Thank you, father.” Adrien looked away and smiled. 

“And this Marinette girl; she seems intelligent enough. You should continue to stick by her.” He put his hand on his son’s back to guide him up the front stairs of their temporary home. It was a decidedly fatherly gesture, but it meant he missed his son’s glowing face under the warmth of his father’s rare and genuine praise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “The painting. It moves.”


	8. Assorted Materials

**Police Statement:**

December 5 1886

On the eve of December 2 Police responded to a report of a fire at The Manor. The fire, which affected mostly the building’s interior on the lower-level, was extinguished, and the Master of the house W. Morris said it had been alighted by the accidental tip of a kerosene lamp. 

_(See eyewitness account)_ The next day C. Contard found the body of the late Missus Morris and alerted the authorities. 

Inspection found the woman facedown in a large attic room (not the master suite), with a multitude of small strange wounds. The ripped wallpaper suggests foul play, and smoke damage to the walls suggests the fire had penetrated upstairs. No one cause of death can currently be identified. 

The Missus was in life of slight build; dark haired and fair, and on her death wore a day-dress purchased at Nicholson’s the season prior, the skirt being ripped to near shreds. 

In the absence of her husband, the Missus Morris was buried in the family cemetery at a private ceremony Dec. 4 1886.

* * *

**Eyewitness Account Missus Clara Contard:**

December 3 1886

“I was up for a cricket had been keeping me awake...oh, I’m sorry, I’ll get to the point. Yes...I saw the Master leave in the dead of night in his carriage. I assumed his young wife was with him. I went up to the Morris mansion to see if there were any of his artworks that could be recovered from the fire, and while many were damaged I found one painting in a roll that had protected it from the smoke. 

Upon my search I stumbled upon--oh, it was a terrible sight! The wee mistress of the house, prone on the floor, her skin the waxy greenish tint of a corpse! I ran all the way back down the hill, crying for my husband, and  _ oh _ ...I would nay rather think of it...yes, thank you…”

_ End Transcription _


	9. Adrien’s Diary; page 1

October 13 1887

Père says that in order to become a good detective, I might start a journal to write down all the things I see and hear. And to practice my penmanship, but that is less exciting !

Cases I have solved so far: 

  * Nino’s violin--but it was just the weather
  * Lila the “prig”--it wasn’t really a case though
  * The howling house--It was Nino’s new dog, Pecan.
  * The living painting--Lila again, what is up with her? Revenge???



People I know:

  * Marinette. I trust her.
  * Alya. Nosy, but trustworthy. 
  * Nino. My bud. Trustworthy. 
  * Chloe. She’s icky. 
  * Lila. i don’t know what to think of Lila either. 



None of these are very important. But maybe someday I’ll find something important. 

Like what father’s working on. Its a big deal! Lots of people want him to find out what happened to a woman. 

I wonder if Lila has anything to do with the red house. She had the key, and maybe she wanted it back, so she tried to scare us. I wasn’t scared, and Marinette is really hard to scare too. I wonder if she’s been inside? Needs more evidence. 

Sincerely, 

Adrien Agreste, Detective. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the next installment. I hope you have as much fun reading it as I'm having piecing together the clues ;)


	10. Adrien Agreste and the Lighthearted Library Visit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! Life has been crazy in the last month. However, I am on track to finish this story!

Adrien leaned his head over the side of the carriage, letting a passing breeze ruffle his hair. Gabriel watched him with tired eyes, once again reminded of his wife, but only distantly. The pain was not as sharp as it had once been. Perhaps it was the fresh start and the crisp country air...and that he had something else to focus on. 

The pair was travelling to the next town over. Gabriel, frustrated with his lack of clues and fed up with the Police Chief’s blatant incompetence, desired a firmer research base, but the town of Idaville had no library. Hence, why they were taking a day trip, since Gabriel was not about to leave Adrien by himself in the town as his uneasiness rose. 

Thankfully, his son seemed to be enjoying himself thus far. The weather was warm and fair, the clouds intermittently raking the sun so the rolling countryside brightened and dimmed in turn. The road was not terribly potholed, and the driver of the rented carriage not talkative, which Gabriel was perfectly pleased with. Perhaps it was the weather, or the liberating feeling of leaving town, or the anticipation of potential discovery, but the usual tensions between father and son were relaxed for the day.

A buzzing noise from behind caught their attention and they turned to see a cloud of dust rising from the road. The carriage driver steered towards the side and the vehicle roared past them, causing the horse to skitter nervously. 

“Golly,” Adrien exclaimed, watching it disappear over the hill as they started up again. “They’re moving fast.” 

Gabriel’s hand went to his chin. “One of those newfangled German automobiles, I’d guess. Ten times as much horse-power as our ride here.” 

“I’d quite like to ride in one.” 

“I would much rather you not; they’re frighteningly dangerous. Yet, better here than in the city where there are more things to hit.” 

Upon arrival, the two stepped out of the carriage. Gabriel bid the driver to return in a few hours and stepped up the stairs and into the cool entrance of the Tiverton Regional Library. 

Adrien found it a fitting adventure to explore its rows of tall shelves filled with bound volumes exuding the sweet musty scent of books. The sunlight filtered in through tall, narrow windows, illuminating sparkling dust motes suspended in the still air. He browsed silently, searching for an interesting crime novel to read while his father conducted whatever research he was here for. The man hummed to himself, lost in thought as he considered volumes down the row from Adrien, a handful of newspapers already tucked under his arm. Adrien smiled. A love of books and research was something he and his father had always shared. 

Ah, his targets were on the top shelf. He’d have to climb. As quietly as he could to avoid the wrath of a prowling librarian, he pulled one of the sliding ladders across the shelves and began to climb to the top. The steps were somewhat large for his child legs, and one of the ladder legs jiggled where it was seated in the track. 

So many titles to choose from! His fingers paused over the spines. Should he get  _ The Mysterious Disappearance of Oliver Oosterink?  _ Or perhaps that new one,  _ Sherlock Holmes?  _ Best to take several and choose later, he supposed as he gathered a stack of volumes into his arms. As he pulled  _ Sherlock  _ from the shelf, something white and papery darted out and into his face. He cried out in surprise and tried to wave it off, stepping back reflexively. Except he was on a ladder, and under his foot was nothing but empty air. 

_ “Adrien!”  _ his father’s voice called, and he felt a blow as someone else’s arms broke his fall, and he was on the floor, and his father was squatting next to him, and books and papers were scattered all over the carpet. Three white moths were flitting about above them in the air between the stacks. 

“Are you all right?” His father’s face was more stricken than he’d ever seen it as he knelt on the ground, his nicely-pressed slacks in rumpled disarray. Adrien was struck by this, and the fact that his father had dropped a number of priceless volumes to dive and catch him. The man did not often express emotion beyond his serious facade, even less since Adrien’s mother had died. 

“I’m fine.” A bubble of adrenaline-fueled laughter rose in Adrien’s chest as he sat up.“It’s like the moths wanted revenge for me taking their book,” he giggled, and his father’s face softened, glad to know his son was unharmed. 

The two of them set about retrieving their respective volumes. Adrien handed his father a scientific journal, a book entitled  _ The Architecture of the Morris House,  _ and a few newspapers from a year’s past and hastily gathered up his novels. His eyes caught on a few of the headlines. 

_ Lauded Designer William Morris Mysteriously Disappears Following Winter Fire and Death of his Fourth Wife _

_ Paris Green Found Toxic _

Adrien’s mind whirred. So the first one definitely referred to his father’s case. But what was Paris green? There weren’t many trees in his city, though the ongoing renovation was beginning to change that with its parks and wide, leaf-lined boulevards. 

The two of them stood and looked at one another. Gabriel struggled to set his face. 

“Right,” he said, with only a touch of gruffness. “I’ll be in one of the reading rooms if you’d like to join me. But please, do be more careful.” 

“Of course, father.” 

* * *

On the ride home as the sun set, Gabriel pondered. The materials he had found today were somewhat circuitous, but may prove fruitful. However, what stuck in his mind most was the headline about the fourth wife. 

Adrien’s head nodded with the bouncing of the carriage, library books resting in his lap, and eventually came to rest slack against Gabriel’s shoulder. The man sucked in a breath and looked over, but he was fast asleep.

Gabriel looked at his son’s face, recalling his giddy laughter after his fall a few hours earlier and wished he could be so fearless. Nowadays, it seemed he was always worried about something. 

One of the books was jiggling from its position in Adrien’s lap, and Gabriel readjusted it so it would not wake him by hitting the floor. His eyes glanced at the title:  _ The Miraculous Adventures of Ladybug and Chat Noir.  _ So that was what he had been so earnestly going after, up on the ladder. A children’s detective novel, one he had also read in his youth. His fingertips fondly traced the leather spine.

Adrien may have had Emilie’s face, but he was in heart Gabriel’s son. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun trivia: "Sherlock Holmes" was written in 1887!
> 
> Prompt: "the butterflies (moths). They want revenge."


	11. Assorted Materials

**_The Architecture of Morris Manor;_ excerpt**

“Morris desired the house to be a place that celebrated art, craftsmanship, and community. Morris and Webb collaborated to make the architecture and interior merge together in a harmonious whole, in order to instill the appropriate atmosphere of domestic harmony and creative energy in its occupants. It is the first home built according to the Modern Principles of fine artistry and utility, a hallmark of the design firm Morris and Webb founded in 1861.

The House is best characterized as simplified Tudor-Gothic. The features of this style include steep roofs, prominent chimneys, cross gables, and exposed-beam ceilings. The grounds include an extensive garden and a small family cemetery.”

“...Other built-in furniture is present in the main living room on the second floor, notably a fireplace painted with Morris’s motto: “ _Ars Longa, Vita Brevis_ ” (Life is short; Art is eternal).”

* * *

**_Scientific American;_ May 1873**

_On results of samples from numerous housewares, sent in by readers around the Country:_

“Toy books with green covers are always to be suspected, and in fact the only absolutely safe thing to do is to avoid green colors altogether.”

* * *

**Newspaper, _Illustrated London News,_ February 20, 1887**

_Colliery Explosion Kills Thirty_

“An explosion has occurred in the Catch Colliery in the Rhondda Valley. There are 52 men entombed in the mine…

  
  


_Lauded Designer William Morris Mysteriously Disappears Following Winter Fire and Death of his Fourth Wife_

“...We suspect murder, but frankly, there is little conclusive evidence. Someone must be brought in...” Idaville Chief of Police. 

  
  


_Nationalism of France: ‘Tour Eiffel’ To Begin Construction This Summer in Paris_

French Nationalism is on the rise with the ambitious design for an exhibition for the 1889 World’s Fair….

  
  


_Nicholson’s New Costumes and Mantles: At Wholesale City Prices_

_Novelties in Dress Fabrics, Plushes, Velvets, etc. A charming variety of washing fabrics._

_50 St. Paul’s Churchyard, London_

_Jensen’s Cod Liver Oil: Pure, Tasteless, Digestible !_

_Typewriters for Sale, Hire, Or Exchange; Half the Usual Price. Contact N. Taylor; 74 Chancery Ln._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimers: direct quotes/paraphrasing taken from an architectural article on the Morris House. The Scientific American article is real. Links will be at end of story as not to spoil it. Newspaper articles up until this point are fictional, but the ads are inspired by real Victorian ads. I will not provide links but you can search ‘em!


	12. From the Diary of Gabriel Agreste, page 34

1887, October 25

I always turn back to here, when my mind is so full of thoughts I wish I had a second consciousness just to store the excess. Still, my work is a welcome respite from sad memories.

There are many peculiar things about this case. For one, the aforementioned limited amount of evidence given to me in the case file, which includes these diary entries, written by the victim herself. I was told they were recovered from the manor after the fire, which is plausible given the edges of the pages are singed. But they do not make up a complete book, as if they have been picked over; selected, and I am locked out of the house where they came from to look for the rest. Even though they do not reveal much more than daily life, the farther I read through, the more concerning they become. 

The Master of the house, Morris, is first on my list of suspected individuals. He is a rich man, an artist and designer who made his fortune in the printing industry. His timely disappearance is highly suspicious, as is the indication in the  _ Illustrated  _ that Mademoiselle Sancoeur was his ‘fourth’ wife. But no trace means no evidence, so I am forced to resort to more roundabout methods. 

It has to be a murder. It must be. There are so many suspicious characters. But what of the motive? As far as I know, there is none.

I do worry about Adrien, adjusting to the loss of his mother. I never know what to say to him, how to parent him. What is too much? What is too little? He needs his freedom, though I must say I desperately want to protect him from my line of work. But he seems to have friends here, and is all right for the time being. He smiles more. I just hope he does not get into any real trouble. 

It is so still and quiet tonight, and it feels like the calm before the storm. I have not been sleeping well as of late. It is likely the stress of work. I cannot put my mind to rest enough to drift off, and when I do manage, I am plagued by the most disconcerting dreams. Ere-yesterday I nodded off at my desk and dreamed of a sickly green poison. When I came to, I had the distinct sense of someone stroking their fingers through my hair, but I was in fact alone in my study. I have put it down to the dream, but I cannot shake the feeling that it was very real. I would have liked it to be real, because it would mean that I am less alone. 

I suppose I have just “got the morbs” as the saying goes. Young people come up with the queerest sayings. 

G. A. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Nights like this were so still; they never boded well."


	13. Adrien's Diary; page 4

October 17 1887

I think I could be in for some serious trouble with Père. Remember our library trip? I went snooping in his office the other day (don’t you dare tell!) when it was raining and I was bored, and happened to get a better look at the cover of one of his library books, “The Arciteture of the Morris House” (I can’t spell it). The Morris house looks EXACTLY like the Red House! Which means Père needs to get in there to work on his case!!!

Oh, whatever shall I do? If I tell Père I have the key, he’ll be mad. But if I don’t, he might never find out what happened to the dead woman!  Journal, if you never hear from me again, I have been buried in the earth for my crimes !

  
Sincerely, 

Adrien Agreste, Worried Detective. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: there is none it's just Adrien is a melodramatic eleven-year-old and I needed to fill a plot hole :D


	14. Adrien Agreste and the Graveyard Walk

“Come on! Come on, let’s go,” Marinette called to her friends racing down the street behind her, laughing. They were heading up to the Red House today to kill some time, as it was currently the most interesting thing in their lives. “Last one there is a rotten goose egg!” 

Adrien grinned as his shoes pounded the cobbles and his breath rose hard in his chest, but he had never been particularly sporty, and he could never catch Marinette. Alya laughed as she ran past him and joyously took a big leap to take the lead as they rounded the last corner. 

“Ha! I’m fastest!” she cried as she looked back, hair streaming behind her, but Marinette suddenly looked stricken and lunged for her arm to pull her back, making a sharp about face and colliding with Nino. The three of them tumbled to the ground in someone’s front yard and Adrien narrowly avoided joining. Looking up, he saw what made her stop. 

“Hey!” What was that-” Nino complained as he inspected his scraped elbow, but Marinette shushed him and pointed. 

Adrien’s father was standing at the gate, hands shoved in his pockets, staring up at the house. Incredibly, he was too lost in thought to have noticed them, and they disentangled themselves and crept back around the corner as unobtrusively as possible.

“What do you think he’s doing?” Marinette asked, peeking out. 

“Yeah, talk about ruining the fun,” Alya complained. Nino bit his lip, and Adrien could see he was somewhat relieved to have not completed their journey, even though he wasn’t nearly as afraid of the house as he had originally been. 

Adrien shook his head. “I don’t know…” 

He must use his detective’s brain and look at the details. His father wore his customary glasses and long coat and shoes. His hat was tucked under one arm, and his normally impeccably-combed blond hair blew wildly about his face in the breeze coming from a front of dark, towering clouds gathering on the horizon behind the Red House. In his other hand--the one not holding the hat--he held a book Adrien recognized.

The wind seemed to blow right through Adrien in chill realization at the book’s red cover. His hand slipped into his pocket with the gargantuan metal key, which seemed even heavier for the importance it held.

He stepped sharply away from the group.

“I- I think, I have to go,” he said, and started to run.

“Hey, wait!” Marinette called, and Adrien didn’t reply. His coat pocket bounced with the key in it to the rhythm of his steps:  _ you’re meddling, you’re meddling.  _ He ran faster and he heard her footsteps fall away. He felt bad about it. 

A block away, he stopped, hands on his knees, to catch his breath. He had to make a decision.

Marinette burst out from the alley across from him. “ _ Aaa!”  _ Adrien gave a startled shout and scrambled back. She got up in his face and grabbed his shirt. 

“What is  _ wrong  _ with you right now?” 

“I- I- I-” She let go, and he regained his wits. “I’m sorry. I just realized...I think I have to… turn this in,” he said, bringing out the key. She looked at it, and looked at him, and pressed her mouth together. 

“Why.” 

“I think...I think it’s part of his case.” 

“The murder case?” 

“Yes.” 

She sucked in a breath and put her hands on her hips, reminding him of their first meeting. “That key is the most interesting thing to happen to me in my entire life here. If you lose it, or he takes it away….” Adrien ducked his head. He didn’t want to ruin their friendship. That’s why his decision was so difficult. 

“...but on the other hand, we haven’t managed to get into the house. If your father does, you’ll tell me everything, right?” 

Adrien nodded. “Of course. We’re partners.” 

She smirked. “Partners tell each other stuff instead of running away,” she replied, but held out her fist for a bump. He bumped back, knowing he’d been stupid, but at least their friendship was safe. 

* * *

The decision weighed on Adrien as he went to bed that night. It bothered him when he awoke the next morning after a very fitful sleep. It distracted him during school lessons, causing the teacher to rap on his desk because he was unable to provide the answer to the maths problem she had called his name for, and he had to stay in during morning recess. 

It plagued him as he got home, dragging his feet. He glanced into his father’s study as he made for the stairs. The man sat hunched over the desk, fingers entangled in his hair and surrounded by several strata of papers. At first glance he appeared to be reading an open book page, but upon his eyes didn’t move. As Adrien watched, he sat up abruptly and shut it a little too firmly, then pushed his chair away to go stand in the window. Adrien bolted up the stairs before he could be noticed. 

There could be no more putting this off. He hoped, as he grabbed the key from its hiding place under his mattress, that any anger his father might harbor for his meddling would be eclipsed by relief at a breakthrough. 

Gabriel was still standing at the window when Adrien returned. He didn’t look over as his son entered the study. 

“Father, I have something to tell you.” 

“Hm.” 

Adrien took that as a go-ahead. “I- my friends and I, we saw you at the gate to the big house on the edge of town.” 

“Yes. It is important for my research.” A shot of guilt went through Adrien. So he had been correct. 

“Well...we found the key.” 

Gabriel’s head snapped up, and his eyes jerked to his small blond son, nervously holding a large brass key that stretched all the way across both of his hands. He gingerly took it, feeling the weight, his face white and stricken. 

“Where did you get this.” It was a terse statement more than a question. 

“L-lila had it; she was stealing things at school and Marinette and I found Chloe’s hair clip and there was this key and it fit the lock so we took it and-” 

Gabriel put up a hand. “It opened? The gate opened? Why didn’t you tell me this? Adrien, this is very dangerous…” He pinched the bridge of his nose. 

“I didn’t know!” he replied.

“Adrien, you’re smarter than that.” 

The boy stumbled. “Well, I mean, I figured it out eventually. Your library books….” 

Gabriel’s mind whirred. Lila was the daughter of the museum curator, Clara Contard, who was married to the Police Chief, who he had a pervasive bad feeling about….

He slipped the key into his pocket. “You should have told me earlier. But that is behind us. Come, we must go immediately.” 

Adrien stared open-mouthed. Was he escaping punishment? It appeared as such. He hastily pulled on his coat and buttoned the buttons, still bewildered as he found himself trotting after his father en route to the mysterious manor. 

“This is not something to play with.” Gabriel gave his son a side-eye as the boy jogged to keep up. “But I’m you’re already involved, and that storm is going to hit soon, and I am too restless to wait until it has passed to enter this place I have been staring at for  _ so long… _ ” Adrien swallowed nervously, for they had arrived. 

His father was much taller than he, and could open the gate much more swiftly. It swung open with a creak on the eerie wind. The clouds rose darkest behind the house like an ominous frame.

The walk up the drive seemed shorter than Adrien remembered. He poked around the grounds while his father inspected the stalwart building for a point of entry. There was the rotten easel, the rusted cans, the chimney with the hole where they had rescued the puppy. Everything was the same, yet something in the air felt different. 

Like it was waiting.

* * *

Gabriel yanked on the handle of the locked back door. It didn’t give, and he gave up, grimacing as he stood up straight and dusted his hands off primly.

“The builders certainly used some state-of-the-art locks on these,” he grumbled as his son rounded the corner. “Ah, Adrien. I have something I would like you to help me with. My book mentioned a private cemetery.” 

Adrien raised his eyebrows in what Gabriel could only assume was confusion, but he could see in the set of the child’s mouth that he was trying to act the part of a professional detective. It brought a smile twitching at Gabriel’s lips. The two of them travelled to the corner of the property where the heather thickened and began searching for any abnormalities. 

A few minutes yielded a small square area contained in wrought-iron fencing. Set into the earth between long yellowed fronds of grass were five gravestones. Gabriel studied them. Three bore women’s names, and they appeared to be all around the same age when they died, which was odd. Sisters...or  _ wives. _ The fifth was considerably smaller--tiny, even--and was inscribed with text that made Gabriel think it may have been a miscarried child. How horrible. Reading from left to right they bore the years 1879, 1883, 1884, and 1886. The little one was from last May.

The last was of a different type of stone, dated December 2, 1886, which he recalled from his case files. 

“That’s hers,” he said on a breath. 

“Whose?” Adrien asked. “The dead woman’s?” 

“Mademoiselle Sancoeur.” 

The words had barely left his mouth when a powerful gust of wind blew around them, rattling the ivy and making the grass lay nearly horizontally. Gabriel closed his eyes from the grit it carried, and when it stopped dead a moment later, the world seemed to have gone grey. The sunlight seemed waxy and feeble, the bricks of the house leached of their vivid color. 

He squinted, for a smiling dark-haired woman stood in front of him. He was entranced by her smile before he remembered he and Adrien had been alone and the gates had been locked. The stormy light seemed to shine right through her. 

He immediately became uneasy. “W-who are you?” He started. Her expression turned fearful, and she rushed towards him to grab his shoulders, but he couldn’t feel her hands.

“The walls, Gabriel,” she said, a note of panic in her voice. 

“What walls? What’s going on? I-” 

He felt his heart beat suddenly--had it not been doing that?--and found himself lying on his back in the grass, staring up at the downy grey sky. It smelled like rain, but the pregnant clouds did not let loose. His hand went to his chest. 

“Father! Are you alright?” Adrien was shaking him. 

“Yes, yes…” Gabriel replied, looking around for the woman. It was as if she had vanished into thin air. Had she been real? None of that had felt real. 

He sat up. Overcome with a sudden urge, he reached out to where Adrien knelt and pulled him into a hug. Adrien stiffened at the sudden gesture, and then relaxed.

Did Gabriel believe in ghosts? He did not. There was a logical explanation for everything...except this. He might have been able to write this off as a freak happenstance, if not for his having been persistently pestered with a bad feeling about the case and nightly dreams of a woman he was now sure is the victim, Mlle. Sancoeur. Her likeness, slowly sharpening each time, was exactly like the painting. And now, her voice, if it truly was her voice. It was too much evidence for his mind to shake. 

Yet, he was somehow disappointed she was gone. It felt like a physical absence in his chest. Perhaps it was because he was so close to finding out more. 

The two Agrestes returned to their residence. As they approached the house, Gabriel spoke. 

“That was a valuable piece of information, son, the open gate. I am quite grateful you managed to find that key, though you should not make a habit of taking things that don’t belong to you.” 

“Thank you, father.” 

“I have been thinking, actually, since you’re already embroiled in this mess, that perhaps I should begin bringing onto some cases.” 

Adrien stopped in his tracks, his eyes lighting up. “Oh! Thank you! I was thinking, actually, about this one? About how she died? That house is tall, and maybe she fell? I was looking around last time, and-” 

Gabriel’s gaze sharpened. “Wait. Do you mean to tell me you’ve been up to the house, more than once, alone? I figured you had just opened the gate to mess around, and then gone home! And I did not mean this case. It is far too treacherous for this to be your first.” 

Adrien faltered. “N-no! I was with, um, some friends. We were bored, and-”

Gabriel shook his head. “No. You are not to go through that gate again. I don’t know how many times I have to tell you-” 

Adrien deflated. “I know. No meddling. But we didn’t know that’s what it was….!” 

“Still. I think I will be keeping this,” Gabriel said, pocketing the key he held in his hand. Adrien hung his head. There would be no more going back to their secret garden.    


* * *

That night, Gabriel dreamed he was sitting in a garden, having tea with Mademoiselle Sancoeur. 

It was on the Manor property, behind the house. The lawns were lush and neatly trimmed, the stark opposite of the wild yellow grass, and there was less ivy on the walls. Even the brick felt redder. There were no gravestones. Bees buzzed lazily in and out of the flowers and birds chirped in the distance. They sat under a woven trellis crawling with summer roses on a pleasant summer day.

She smiled as she poured him tea from the fine china pot, painted with the same flowers and winding vines as on the trellis and wallpaper. Gabriel looked at her hard. She was the picture of health in a summer party dress and poised white hat, perched birdlike on the edge of the wicker tea chairs, her cheeks rosy in the summer warmth. His heart skipped a beat as she handed him his cup. Her lips moved, but nothing came out. 

“I’m sorry?” He asked. 

“The walls, Gabriel,” She replied with a smile. 

The sky darkened and blurred in a sickening swirl, and suddenly he was shut in an attic and she was an emaciated corpse on the floorboards. 

Gabriel woke up in a cold sweat, cheek pressed to his desk and heart pounding in his ears. He gasped for air as he sorted wide-eyed through the images of his dream. As disturbing as it was, he missed that calm little moment, that island of peace in the garden. He sorely wished it could have been real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Graveyard walk"


	15. CASE FILE: The Murder of Mlle. Sancoeur, Miscellaneous files, page 16

1886, may 13th

Such curious wallpaper. So beautiful, and yet... I am shut in this room. My husband believes it best for me, with the loss of the baby and all. Especially since I have not gotten over it. It hangs around my consciousness. The little headstone out back in the cemetery makes me cry to look at, and William turns me away. My husband knows best. I am shut in this room. I look out the window at the beautiful green of the lawn behind the house. The gardeners cut it every week, and this week they are planting flowers in the beds. I wish I could be a gardener, and go outside. 

Yours. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "the green wallpaper"


	16. Adrien Agreste and the Case of the Disappearing Footprints

Adrien hadn’t seen Marinette in three days. Apparently, the bakery was busy and her parents required her help. He had met Nino and Alya for a game of catch in the streets, but it just wasn’t the same without her sarcastic comments and overzealous throwing arm. 

His father’s silence was wearing on him too. The man seemed even more secretive than usual after the incident with the key, and Adrien knew he kept it either locked in his desk drawer or tucked into his pocket. He seemed to sleep more. Adrien had come upon him twice snoozing in the middle of the day and didn’t have the heart to disturb him. Those times when his brow relaxed were when he looked the most at peace in over a year.

The worst of it was not being able to go up to the Red House. The haunted manor had been providing him a place to explore, a sense of adventure. Life was boring without taking little bits of risk, and Adrien sorely missed having the opportunity. He sat in his bedroom in the late afternoon with his journal open on his knees, but there was nothing to write. For the first time in a long time he wished he were back in Paris, that he had never come here. That somehow, it could all be undone. 

Call it a deus ex machina, but in that very moment of pondering there came a  _ taptaptap _ at his window. He dismissed it at first. His room was on the second story, and it was probably just a bird. But no, there it was again, along with a subtle creaking and shuddering of metal. He jumped up, the book falling out of his lap, and raced to open the curtains. 

Outside, Marinette was clinging to the drainpipe. Adrien stared openmouthed for a moment before unlatching the window so she could crawl in. “You’re mad as  _ hops, _ ” he said. 

She grinned back at him. “I know. Help me inside.” 

Adrien took her hand and pulled her into his bedroom. She wore an apron covered in flour dust, and there was some on her nose. “Boy am I glad to see you. It’s been torture tiptoeing around my father as of late.” 

“I kind of guessed. Which is why we’re going to go up to the Red House today. I found something I want you to see when I went up alone yesterday. I’m sorry,” she said to his confused face, “I had to escape the minute I was told I didn’t need to roll out pastry dough anymore.” 

“No, that’s fine, but I don’t understand. How did you get in? Father has the key. And speaking of which, he told me not to go anymore.” 

Marinette pursed her lips. “What did he say, exactly?” 

“Uhm… ‘you are not to go through that gate again,’ I think were his exact words.” Marinette’s smile brightened. 

“Perfect! We’ll be fine. Alya is hung up at the print shop and Nino had to help with the washing, so they will meet us later if they can. Come on, chuckaboo,” she said, and pulled him back towards the window. She swung her leg over the frame and put her hands on the drainpipe before winking at him and sliding out of sight. Adrien grinned and rubbed his neck. What a bricky girl she was. 

* * *

Soon enough they were at the manor gate, but instead of stopping Marinette veered off to the left and continued along the exterior wall. Adrien was still confused, but he knew at this point she had a reason for everything she did. 

Presently they entered a thicket of trees that snaked along the boundary and she slowed to a stop. Adrien looked around. “What are we-” He paused as she brought out a length of knotted rope and wrapped it around her fist. The top end was tied to a branch that hung close to the wall. 

“We climb,” she replied, and hoisted herself up. 

Adrien watched in mild fascination as she shimmied to the top, reaching out with her leg to pull herself to the wall so she could stand on it. She let it swing back to him. “Come on up.” Adrien went at it, but she made it look easy, even wearing a skirt. No wonder she had a hole in her stockings, if climbing things was a common practice of hers. Eventually he made it, breathing hard, and she reached out to pull him over. She then threw the rope over the opposite side and they dropped into the property.

Running up the hill through the wild grass felt adventurous, and Adrien embraced it with open arms. Not one breath of wind stirred the air, meaning it was easy to keep an ear out for the rustling of grass snakes. They were exploring uncharted territory this time. 

The house rose up to greet them like a mysterious old friend. Marinette motioned Adrien to follow her around back, near the scattered pieces of junk, and gestured to a bare patch of ground. 

“These footprints. They just...stop.” 

Adrien’s brow furrowed. There were in fact footprints, and he didn’t remember them being there three days ago when he and his father had been on the premises. And they did seem to lead nowhere. They trailed off just before the grass started up again. 

“What do you think?” she asked. “Lila?” 

“No, father’s got the key, remember? And even if she climbed the walls like we did, they’re too big. Put your shoe in the dirt, see?” She did and left her own dusty print, and they compared sizes. “They’re women’s boots like yours, but bigger.” 

“Does your father wear women’s boots?” 

“Of course not, you jester. Lila’s mum, maybe?” 

Marinette scoffed. “Lila’s mum’s a real church bell, if you know what I mean. She was talking up a storm to my mum yesterday in the bakery, and if she had been up here I’m quite certain she wouldn’t have been able to keep it to herself.” 

The two of them settled into silence, and Adrien began to pace, careful not to soil the footprints. None of it made sense. Their leads went nowhere. For the first time, Adrien felt very unsure of himself. 

Marinette wandered off to go snoop around some more while he thought. She dug her fingers and toes into the cracks in the brickwork and hoisted herself up to window-level to see inside. 

“Woah. It’s butter on bacon in here,” she breathed. 

“What does that even _mean_ ,” Adrien grumbled, still stuck on the conundrum of the footprints. 

“Rich. Though it looks like somebody lit a fire or something. The walls are all blackened.” 

_ Weird,  _ Adrien mused. Maybe the woman who lived here died from the fire? Didn’t his father’s newspaper articles mention something like that? 

He kicked one of the rusted cans as he passed it, and it rolled over. The side that had been protected from the elements by the earth had a peeling label. He picked it up. 

_ Berger’s Finest Paints _

_ Pure Paris Green _

It took a moment before something  _ else  _ from the newspaper headlines clicked, and Adrien dropped the can. He jogged over to where the grass was thicker and vigorously wiped his hands on it, though the can had been opened and whatever paint inside it was long gone. 

A sudden gust of wind came out of nowhere and stirred the long fronds in front of him. Adrien’s eyes were drawn to the movement, but the grass did not move with the breeze. Rather, it looked as though someone was tromping through it, pushing it aside and flattening it under their footsteps. He backed up, his heartbeat quickening. Was it snakes? Or had this been what his father had seen the other day, when the wind had blown and he had crumpled like a sack of bricks? 

The movement stopped. He could swear he felt something brush past his side, as if footsteps were continuing over towards the house, and he stood stock still, listening.

A second gust, much stronger than the first, blew through with a clatter of old shutters and tumbling metal, and Marinette’s shout came from behind, “Adrien, look out!” He whipped around just in time for the paint can he had curiously picked up to clock him in the eye. He fell backwards with a grunt, his vision ringing with colored spots. He could have sworn the wind whispered  _ “Sorry”  _ as it died _ ,  _ but he didn’t trust his ringing ears.

“Are you okay?! Oh my god!” Marinette was at his side. Her fingers were touching his in the grass as she knelt. Her face was as whiter than a sheet. “It was like, it was like, that can, as if it got thrown,” she stumbled. 

Adrien groaned and put a hand to his forehead. It seemed as though the sharp corner had cut him, as his fingertips came away sticky with blood. “It was probably just the wind, like we’ve been saying.”

“No! It looked like someone picked it up, wound up, and threw it.” 

Adrien looked up at her curiously. He had never, ever seen her look as fearful as she was now. All these improbable details made his head spin again and his stomach drop. “Let’s...let’s get out of here.” 

“I agree. Can you stand?” 

He could without much difficulty, but kept a hand on her shoulder nonetheless. They descended the hill as quickly as they dared. When they reached the spot where they had climbed over previously, their rope was not as they had left it. Marinette made a strangled noise and Adrien followed her gaze up. Somebody had cut it, and only about a meter swung from the tree branch above their heads. 

They looked at each other and set off in an adrenaline-fueled run along the perimeter of the wall. After several minutes they reached the front gate. It was still locked. Marinette pushed Adrien down into the brush when a whistling policeman came into view. Was it just them, or did his face hold a satisfied smirk? They held their breath until he disappeared. 

“Oh my god, what do we do? What do we  _ do?  _ We’re stuck in here and my father is going to  _ kill _ me! _ ”  _ Adrien said, starting to panic. 

“Hold your horses, brain boy.” Marinette’s level-headedness in the midst of crisis was returning. “We’re just going to have to back-slang it.” Adrien had mostly given up figuring out her mannerisms, but thought he understood this one. 

They ran back the way they had come and farther, determined to find a weak spot in the wall as the sun sank towards the horizon. Neither of them wanted to spend the night within the confines of the Manor grounds. It became a race against the fading day. Adrien’s stomach began to growl and his face throbbed. At some point, he slipped his hand into Marinette’s in a silent gesture of solidarity, and they held onto one another like a lifeline. 

When the house was but a mere speck up on the hill, framed by the sunset, Marinette stopped. Adrien joined her in staring upward at the wall. It had gotten less well-maintained the farther back they got. Bricks were missing in places, and other sections were beginning to crumble. This was one of these. The top meter or so had collapsed, making it only two-thirds as high of an ascent. 

“Need a boost?” Adrien asked, seeing how she eyed the gap. 

“If you’d be so kind,” she replied lightly. He made his hands into a step and she put her foot in it, scrabbling for hand and footholds in the empty brick slots. With some grunting, she was up on top. She laid on her stomach and offered him a hand, but it was too far away. 

“Try a running start,” she said. He did, and it took a few tries, but finally he caught her hand and together they pulled him up. They sat there to catch their breath for a few precious moments. Adrien looked at the sky, basked in the glorious colors of the dying day. 

“You know, I was wishing for some adventure earlier when I was stuck in my room. I’m not sure I wanted  _ this  _ much, though.” 

She smiled wryly. “Well, we’re not through yet. We still have to get down.” Adrien gulped. There was no rope this time. They would have to jump. 

“On the count of three, partner?” 

“On the count of three.” 

* * *

It was dark by the time they reached the front gate, miraculously with no broken bones but scrapes and bruises aplenty. Alya and Nino sat leaning against the iron bars, and they jumped up when they saw Adrien and Marinette approaching. 

Alya was the first to reach them. “Where have you two  _ been _ ?” she clamored, clearly worried but masking it with irritation. “We went to where you said your rope setup was, Marinette, but it had been cut... _ no.  _ Don’t tell me. You guys got trapped inside?” Her mouth dropped when they nodded. 

“Gee, brother. You’ve copped a real mouse there,” Nino commented on Adrien’s gradually blackening eye. “How’d you get that?” 

Adrien and Marinette turned to each other, the overwhelming nature of the story too much to easily explain. 

“I don’t know,” they said simultaneously. 

* * *

Adrien split off from the rest of the group at his house, wary of his father’s impending wrath. His window had been closed, so there would be no climbing the drainpipe to get in. Marinette gave him a sorry look. “See you soon...if you ever come out again.” 

“Thanks,” he said, but it didn’t help. He hid around the corner for a minute, trying fruitlessly to brush the dirt off his clothes before giving up and opening the front door as quietly as he could.

His father was standing at his office window, his mouth pressed into a fine, hard line. 

“You’ve been out for hours,” he remarked. Adrien didn’t reply. “In ordinary circumstances, this would deserve a-- hold on, what is wrong with your  _ face? _ Where did you get that? _ ”  _ Adrien stayed silent, but he knew his guilty expression gave away the answer. 

“Child, one of these days you will be the death of me.” Gabriel turned away and pinched the bridge of his nose, letting out a deep sigh before continuing. “Let me adjust my wording, funny boy, since you’re good at finding loopholes. You are not to go up to the Morris House again. If I catch you, I’ll have your hide. Now go, up to bed with you. I’ll bring you something frozen for that eye, but you are not to come down until I tell you.” 

Adrien climbed the stairs, equal parts puzzled and shaken and grateful for somehow getting off scot-free. He changed and crawled into bed and stared at the ceiling until his exhaustion won out. Even without concrete evidence, he was beginning to believe something otherworldly was happening up on top of the hill. 

Despite what his father always said, maybe not everything had a logical explanation. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "the footprints...they just...stop."


	17. Adrien’s Diary, page 6

1887, october 27

Adding to my case list. 

Cases so far: 

  * Nino’s violin--but it was just the weather
  * Lila the kleptomaniac--it wasn’t really a case though
  * The howling house--but it was nino’s new dog
  * The living painting--lila again, what is up with her?



Now we have the disappearing footprints, and the strange wind.  _ That  _ feels like something big. It sends a chill down my spine every time I think of it. I want to solve it, but there’s nowhere to start, and it bothers me. There should be a logical explanation. There must be! I feel like somehow it is part of Père’s, and I know I’m not allowed to work on Père’s. 

My eye still hurts but according to Père it’s not as bad as it looks. I’ve been icing it with a frozen beefsteak. It’s disgusting, but my face is less puffy. 

Also I’m grounded until kingdom come. What good is a detective without being able to go investigate? Marinette is going to have to go without me, and I worry about her going alone. She won’t be able to get out if the policeman cuts her rope again! 

Oh, a thought. Nobody saw us go in, right? I wonder if that policeman thought he caught someone else. 

Maybe...father???

Sincerely, 

Adrien Agreste, Imprisoned for his Crimes


	18. CASE FILE: The Murder of Mlle. Sancoeur, Miscellaneous files, pages 20 and 21, Nathalie’s Diary.

1886, november 30??

I know there is something wrong. 

I have but few clear thoughts each day to write, and it is physically difficult

there are sores on my hands that i do not know the cause. it is getting to be a great effort for me to think straight I cannot breathe. My mouth is dry no matter what i drink 

My body cramps, as if the baby is still within me, and most concerningly, when i went to relieve myself the other day, there was blood. william says if i rest, if i stay very still and do not move, it will get better. So I lay here and i trace the vines on the wall paper with my mind. 

I’m tired of what william says. 

Yours. 

* * *

_ Later; next page. Presumably December 1. Written in an extremely shakey hand.  _

  
  


No,, i cannot sleep, don’t let m e fall asleep, it will kill me, don’t let me fall aslee p ,

The d oors are locked, the windo ws are seal ed. I am hurt, the w alls hurt , i know i t.

Am i as hysterical as i am told? am I ? I wish i knew, i wish i knew 

at least i know my n ame

Yours

N a tha l i ee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "don't let me fall asleep...!"


	19. From the Diary of Gabriel Agreste, page 37

1887, October 29th

It has been a very dry fall, I am told. The sky is stubbornly trying to storm but still no rain. 

I am slowly getting somewhere with this case. I went to the Chief of Police with the key, saying a child had picked it up. I caught the way he stared at it astounded for the briefest of moments, but he had no choice but to let me search the premises. Interestingly enough, he opened the back door with a different key he apparently possessed all along. Come to think of it, that must have been how his wife entered to pilfer the painting of the Mademoiselle. 

Highly, highly suspicious. 

The interior of the Morris House--mine eyes have seen it at last!-- is beautifully papered in the style of a few decades ago, with winding vines and flowers in pinks and greens. It was two of his officers and myself in the house, but they and the Chief stuck together and presently I found myself exploring alone. I must confess I have yet to venture up to the attic, partially out of a ludicrous fear that these dreams I have been having will be proven as fact if the room is how I imagine it. 

Speaking of dreams, at the urges of what I have begun to think as the spirit of the Mademoiselle, I insisted we open up some of the walls, but the Chief seemed hesitant. I thought I spied a gun in his vest when he shifted to wipe his perspiring brow, and the officers shared conspiratory glances. 

Nevertheless, I persisted, and he must have realized it would look even more suspicious to not allow his detective to properly investigate. We began to rip down some of the wall paper. One of the men claimed dizziness, and the Chief used that excuse to call off the search for the day. He is increasingly sweaty and nervous. I have suspicions about this paper regarding one of my research materials. I shall be retaining a sample to send in for scientific testing. 

We returned anon with pry-bars and what did we find? Bleached white bones, entombed within the wall. At close inspection they seem to be human, and female, judging by the lines of the pelvic bones. My heart was gripped with fear until I recalled that the Mademoiselle’s body is recorded to have been buried per the case documentation. But with this I do have reason to suspect that not all of the women buried in the yard lie peacefully interred in their graves. 

I am sure at this point it is a murder. The appearance of these bones shows a precedent of foul play, and the child’s grave out back provides a motive. Perhaps she was strangled in a fit of rage when the child was lost, or if the Master found out it was not his offspring in the first place. 

The only piece of contrary evidence is the continence of the disturbing nature of the diary entries, which I have come to the end of. Whatever sickness she attempts to describe does not line up with the timeline of the dead child. 

With this I am reaffirmed in my decision to not allow Adrien in on this case. The boy has been nothing but trouble lately. I cannot fathom why he continues to evade me, except that he must be as bored as he says. I am at least impressed with his wit. I will do everything in my power to keep him out of harm’s way, but lest I lock him in his bedroom there is not much else I can do to physically prevent him from going up to the house that the walls cannot accomplish. The other day when he returned his eye was blacker than a tin of shoe polish, and he refused to tell me how it happened. I simply do not have the energy for this at the moment. 

Then again, I suppose he is no more difficult to manage than myself at his age. 

Oh, another thing. While we were preoccupied with our macabre discovery, one of the officers came about in a great fright, claiming to have seen a woman standing in the corner of the drawing room. We all acknowledge the house sits locked and vacant. The Chief used this as an excuse to call off the work, and once again I am restricted to my office, itching to escape. 

I must confess I have seen her too, yet I am not afraid. I am sure by now she is the one helping me sleep, and sometimes I sleep only so that I may see her. Mademoiselle Sancoeur, or should I say, Nathalie. Yesterday we took a walk down the lane in pleasant silence. The House looks so different in my dreams, all green and kept up, and the weather is as it should be. I wanted to ask her why she continues to visit, but I turned around and she had vanished. 

The ground fell out from underneath me and I fell into what I now assume to be the attic of the Morris House--and the room where she died. This time I noticed it was clad in the same paper as the downstairs. And then I awoke.

I long to thank her for her invaluable help, but the dead cannot hear the words of the living...or can they? I will make my third confession of this entry and say as much as I fear the answer, I desire confirmation that she is truly present. 

I wish nobody a death like hers. My heart aches for her, even though she is already gone.

G. A.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: plothole filling lmao


End file.
